


Rebirth

by Tarchannon



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: AU, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarchannon/pseuds/Tarchannon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very human Scott and Logan finally meet in the most unlikely place, a year after tragedy struck</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rebirth

**Author's Note:**

> 1) A while back, I had a discussion with someone who thought that all great characters were intrinsic to their source material. I obviously disagree. :P  
> 2) This AU is simply our world, there were never any mutants.  
> 3) Thanks to the most awesome Cur for the beta.

He lifted his hand from the rail and tilted it back and forth until he caught a faint shimmer. Salt, even way up here, dried from the spray against the rocks below. Distractedly, he curled his fingers inward, rubbing back and forth across the sharp grit in until it stung, until he could *feel*. It was just after noon, but you could hardly tell in the grey gloom of this place. Cloudy ashen skies stretched out in front of him to the horizon, where rough grey seas returned almost all the way back, stopped only by the tip of the rocky ridge as it sank into the sea and a thin strip of pale taupe sand that started somewhere below his feet and widened as it stretched off to the right for a few hundred feet before it turned sharply right again, back toward the mainland. He could hardly remember if it was late March or early April, but it was still cold. It seemed like it was always cold here.

***  
He must have done a hundred of these; they were all starting to look the same. The tiresome schematics, the dingy metal, the particularly exacting placements of the struts… but the lines were still elegant, and the deadlines still got met. And all those pointless, vaguely irritating messages – all couched in such careful, even tones that tried to mask what they really wanted to say - went unanswered. He just deleted them now, barely looked at the phone, in fact. He was only the CEO, and eminently replaceable, or he would be if he weren’t also the owner. Not that anyone would suggest it: the contracts came in and went out like clockwork, and the cash kept flowing. And even now, no one could touch his math. No one. 

He stood up and stretched, snapping his head left trying to work out the stiffness in his neck that didn’t seem to want to go away. The huge bank of floor to ceiling windows that wrapped around most of the great room left him with a million dollar view of the winter sea and sky, and the sound of the ocean on the rocks and the keening of the gulls were his only company. 

***  
The drive back was treacherous in the dark, a single narrow road snaking out along the crest of rock that jutted out into the Atlantic. It twisted madly around boulders and past jagged outcroppings someone had obviously blasted out just to get a vehicle through. He’d rented the place four months ago; he just couldn’t bear to stay back there. Sleek and modern, the tiny, low-slung house perched like a tree house, or maybe more like a crow’s nest, cantilevered out over the last knobby tip of land’s finger as it reached out to touch the sea. He’d approved of it on sight, or maybe he’d just understood it. Regardless, he’d taken it on the spot. 

The tiny carport didn’t do much but keep off the worst of the rain, and every time he made the trip he cursed the suspension of his tiny silver sports car on the way out on the bumpy road, and gave a sigh of thanks when he came back because he could just ease her graceful curves back under cover. He almost wished that he would have bought his bike instead, but that was too impractical. He roughly tugged two bags of groceries from the passenger seat: case in point. 

The first two sets of stairs up were slick, and he imagined that the set that turned right and threaded among the rocks back down to the beach were worse. Instead, he turned left and climbed upward in the near dark, thankful that it was staying well above freezing now. 

He didn’t bother to turn on the lights, just stored the goods from rote and used the light in the fridge to pluck a beer out and made a three surface bounce shot with the cap to the trash. Her laughter came unbidden in his head; that move never failed to make her smile, and he even smiled to himself. Then he remembered the rest; she’d burned, so bright and hot all there was left was ash and wreckage in the snow. 

Sleep was long time coming. 

***  
A sleek, dark metal deck wrapped around the building just beyond the bank of windows, daringly suspended out into space, and set high - as if the floor of the great room just flowed out through the windows. When the weather wasn’t too grim, he’d taken to walking back and forth on the open grid decking in the cold air to break up the endless flow of demands and revisions that flowed to him though his laptop, and then sometimes to help numb his mind when he couldn’t sleep. Occasionally, he’d spy a fishing boat or someone sailing, or even the occasional ocean liner he’d identify with the telescope mounted on the porch railing. Sometimes, birds would come up and tussle for prime spots on the railing. Other times, he’d catch a glimpse of some desperate teenagers braving the temperatures for a private place to picnic or make out. There had been at least a half-dozen times already when he’d carried back the garbage he’d come across on the long runs he’d take on the beach. 

He’d just come out of the shower after a run, in fact, when he thought he’d heard the last stroke of an engine die in the distance - maybe a boat motor or a big motorcycle - but this far from the main road, it was unlikely. Sometimes it was hard to tell here, between the echoes off the rocks to the south and the ocean, and he’d been here alone long enough now that couldn’t truthfully dismiss the idea that he’d just made it up. It’d taken him a few minutes to towel off his hair and throw on some clothes, but it hadn’t taken long to spot a dark figure moving toward the water picking his way along the rocks. 

“What the hell,” he muttered to himself. It was a private beach. 

“Hey!” he yelled down, but the wind was blowing inland, and the guy had probably been too far away. It only took seconds before the man disappeared into the rocks. A good wave hit, sending water high in the air just beyond where he disappeared. He frowned; there wasn’t any beach over there. A wave of bitter ice flowed into his belly. 

“Shit!” he gasped, and then ran for the stairs. 

***  
“Dammit, dammit, dammit…” he repeated under his breath as he made it down to the sand and across the beach in record time, even with the wet sand caking his legs and shoes. The ridge of rock fell in blades and boulders from here all the way down into the water. The rocks were always slick, and between the jumbled rocks and the waves, the water was a death trap. He knew, because it wasn’t the first time he’d thought about it. “Hey!” he boomed as loud as he could, repeating himself over and over as he reached the water’s edge, then not seeing anything on the rocks, or in the water, began clambering over the rocks. 

He searched for what seemed like an hour, and just when he was about to give up, he spied a little saddle set high in the rocks and squeezed through, and he caught sight of a bobbing head. Longish, dark hair tossed water into the air as the swimmer turned in the slightly less turbulent waters of a tiny hidden cove. 

“What the *fuck* do you want?” the swimmer yelled, glaring at him as he bobbed up and down. 

He didn’t know if he should be relieved or offended. He settled for a little of both. “To save your *fucking* life, asshole!” 

“Don’t need saving,” the man growled deep enough to be heard easily across the water, but he started swimming to shore regardless. 

“Jesus,” he groaned to himself. He shifted himself up onto a more even perch and glared down, jaw clenched, teeth aching, his hands automatically settling on his hips. What kind of idiot…

Then the swimmer hauled himself out of the water. “Jesus,” he breathed again, but in an entirely differently way. Naked as the day he was born, the swimmer reached up a good two feet, grabbed onto the rock face and literally levered himself up and out of the water as easy as someone might scratch the back of their head. The air caught in this throat; apparently the Greeks had it wrong: when Chronos emasculated Uranus and threw his family jewels into the sea, the foam didn’t give rise to Aphrodite, but [Ares ~ Aris?] – if this guys tattoos were to be believed. 

Tall, dark, and densely muscled, the swimmer balanced easily on the rocks, water running off him in rivulets and away like some nature elemental caught aware. One quick flick of a thick, square-fingered hand slicked shoulder-length hair back out of his face before it scrubbed back down over a hard masculine face that was striking, but not handsome. His features were all hard - heavy brow, dark deep-seated hazel eyes, strong nose, and a harsh press of the lips – but they were offset by a set of well-groomed sort-of muttonchops that should have looked anachronistic, but didn’t. His chin was covered in what looked like a permanent five o’clock shadow, and the deep chestnut colored hair that matted his massive pecs swirled downward in all the right places. He looked tough and strong and not a little bit angry. And if the cold water affected him, there was no sign of that – anywhere. Something in his belly flip-flopped as he stared; the swimmer was sex personified. Or maybe he was just danger personified, and that was inherently sexy. Regardless, he suddenly realized that he hadn’t thought anything was sexy since *her*. 

His mouth went dry, and the dark concerns that had set fire to his feet and had fueled his anger just flickered out.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” the swimmer groused, and then pointedly started looking around at the rocks. 

‘”There,” he pointed to a pair of boots higher on the rocks. The Greek god just went about his business like this was all an everyday occurrence. He continued, a little perturbed, “Are you crazy?”

“Nah.” The swimmer dug around in little pile of clothing and extracted a cigar and old-fashioned lighter and lit up. 

“What are you doing on my property?” 

The swimmer smirked and took another puff, blowing a perfect bluish smoke ring. “Swimming.” 

For some reason, his brain decided it was best to short itself out – perhaps it was all of his blood rushing south. He finally managed, “Could you put some pants on?” 

That smirk became a wicked grin, and the burly man replied smoothly, “Sure,” before he slipped on the uneven rocks, but then caught himself and wobbled. 

A strong wave below sent a sheet of spray high in the air, leaving his red lenses annoyingly speckled. Teetering on the wet, loose rocks was getting ridiculous; the sudden flip-flopping of his stomach was even more so. “What’s your name?” he demanded. 

“Logan.” 

“I’m Scott,” he called back, grimacing as he realized he’d already said more to this Logan than he had to anyone in six months. His own name even sounded odd on his lips. “If you’re not planning on drowning yourself, can we continue this back on the beach?” 

Logan frowned as if drowning himself had never occurred to him; heck, he frowned deep enough it was as if he didn’t understand why anyone would drown themselves, or even could. Part of Scott was secretly affronted by that – like somehow the man thought that he was too good for that – but the rest of him was too busy noticing the entrancing glitter of water droplets on Logan’s chest hair. It was… unsettling.

The dark-haired man nodded thoughtfully and waved him on, and Scott didn’t wait. Scott needed to regain some stability- physically and mentally - and he’d start with level sand. 

***  
Logan hadn’t bothered with a shirt or boots despite the frigid air, and that perturbed him. It perturbed him even more that he instantly noticed that Logan’s skin faintly glittered with dried salt and sand. 

That could get ugly, he thought absently. At least the short rock climb gave him a few moments to gather his thoughts. “How’d you get here?” Scott asked bluntly. He almost felt a little bad when Logan was slightly taken aback. 

“Motorcycle. Up the stairs, in the driveway,” he replied a little curtly in a bone-shaking basso. 

A bike? Despite himself, Scott felt the corners of his mouth begin to curl. At least he knew that he hadn’t started to hear things, but he did not let it distract him – much. “Why are you here?” 

Logan’s eyes narrowed and Scott felt like he was being sized up. After he took a good long look, Scott guessed that he passed muster, because the answer came quickly. “I came into town for work, and got here early. I decided ta take a swim.” 

Trying to ignore the warmth he felt under that dark gaze, Scott didn’t buy the story. “So you randomly found a hidden cove at the tip of a peninsula way and the hell out from town?” 

Logan shook his head. “Been here before, a while back.” His eyes shifted up to the house, but he didn’t explain further. 

“Business or pleasure?” 

“Business,” he snorted.

“What kind of business?”

The burly man hesitated, and then answered carefully, “Security.” 

Though he hadn’t worked it all out yet, everything this Logan was answering painted a consistent picture and Scott certainly wasn’t giving him much time to create a story on the fly. It took a lot of cash to rent this place, and frankly, he’d had to hire personal security before, as many wealthier people had to do from time to time in this day and age. This guy seemed exactly like someone he’d hire - well, if he had a better haircut and a suit. 

The breeze caught Logan’s drying hair and tossed it wildly into his eyes, and he thoughtlessly shook it back out lke it was a matter of habit. It made Scott wonder. “What kind of motorcycle?”

“What?” 

“What. Kind. Of. Motorcycle?” he repeated, shooting a look back toward the carport.

“A Harley - Road King Classic,” Logan said proudly with the twist of a smile forming on his lips. 

“Really?” Scott asked, stepping closer. That was an impressive machine. “Cool. I was in the shower when you pulled up. I couldn’t tell what kind of motor it was.” 

“You can tell from the sound?” Logan sounded impressed. Scott noticed that his teeth were very white. 

“Bikes and planes,” he confirmed, perhaps a bit boastfully. A faint smile came easily. 

“Cool,” Logan said, clearly interested from the way he leaned forward, all the tension bleeding from his shoulders. 

Scott studied this strange guy that has just basically shown up on his doorstep. He was like a puzzle – a slightly dangerous, very interesting puzzle – and he hadn’t been interested in anything in so long he’d forgotten what it was like. Sure it was a risk, but he guessed that Logan wasn’t here to kill him or he would have already been fish food on the rocks back there. And, he was ashamed to admit even to himself that it wasn’t like he hadn’t already spent way too much time considering the dangers of that rocky surf since he’d arrived. He hadn’t dared let himself even set a toe in the ocean since he came because it’d just be too easy to get in a little too deep and let it all go. 

Logan smiled at him, genuine and eager. His stomach flip-flopped again as he ran those thick, blunt fingers though his damp hair, before it blossomed again into heat. It’d been so long his chest ached, and he wasn’t sure if it that was good or bad. Scott couldn’t help but smile back. 

“OK,” Scott finally said. It’d been too long. It was time. 

“OK, what?” 

“Come on,” he said, turning and heading across the sand to the stairs.

“Huh?”

Scott smirked to himself but didn’t stop, knowing somehow that Logan would follow. “Shower. Between the salt and the sand, your ass will be raw by the time you ride back to your hotel if you don’t rinse off.” 

***  
It took Logan a few minutes to make it up the stairs, but judging from the bundle of clothes in his hands, Scott guessed that he’d made a side trip back to his bike. Based on the hazy blue halo, he’d also taken the time to light another cigar. 

“Those stay outside,” he ordered firmly, pointing at the burning butt, but then he softened it with a faint smile. 

“Bossy,” he murmured under his breath, just loud enough to be heard, but Logan didn’t argue, and quickly stepped out for a moment. 

Scott tried not to bristle, scanning the great room quickly to make sure everything was tidy.

“‘Wow,” Logan said, as he came back in. “They’ve spiffed up the place.”

If it hadn’t been for the click of the door, Scott wouldn’t have heard the man coming. It was creepy, and also, he had to admit, kind of impressive. 

Logan took a minute to walk along the segmented windows, each seamless pane providing a slightly different view as they curved around the great room. He took it all in and then sighed once, before turning inward to examine everything inside just as carefully. After a moment, he looked a little less pleased. 

“What?” Scott asked, looking around himself. 

“The view never gets old, but the rest is a little…” 

‘Modern?” Scott supplied.

“Sterile,” he corrected. 

He watched Logan shrug noncommittally, and realized that he’d never really thought about it. “If you need the washer or the dryer, they are in the closet to the right of the bathroom door. The bathroom’s back that way, and there are towels under the sink. Just yell if you need anything.”

“At least that hasn’t moved,” Logan said gruffly in a tone that Scott couldn’t identify, and headed back to shower.

“The hot water’s on demand, so take your time!” he yelled back as the door was swinging shut. 

Suddenly at loose-ends, Scott flipped his laptop open to check his e-mail.

***  
His guest took a long shower, long enough that Scott had already gone though and addressed all the e-mails that needed his response, and he’d actually started back at the top, reading through the ones he usually just deleted after he noticed that his hands were shaking. He weirdly felt like a kid again - a little naughty and a whole lot of nervous – so he desperately skimmed to keep his mind off the naked hot guy in his shower. It was getting late, and the already grey sky faded a few more shades toward black as he waited. 

Logan was right, he thought suddenly. He looked around and all he could see was black and grey, stainless and taupe. There was nothing out of place, no pictures, no real traces of himself at all. The screen of the laptop was the only real splash of color – the off-white wing of a Cessna against a cloudy blue sky. Hell, his jeans and turtleneck were black. All things considered, he shouldn’t have been taken aback, but he was, and he didn’t like it. Their place had never been ‘sterile’ when she was alive; he’d always remembered her in red and green. He’d been here all this time and he’d never noticed. 

The shower finally clicked off, and Scott practically jumped up, having decided that he really needed a drink. “You want a beer?” he yelled. 

”Sure,” came the muffled reply. 

Scott nearly dropped the two beers when he turned around and Logan was suddenly just *there*. In a towel. Only a *very* low slung towel. 

“Shit,” Scott swore, fumbling the beers. Logan snorted, but didn’t move away, so Scott tried to fight down the heat in his face, popped the top off one and passed it over, then popped the other one. He watched Logan take a long, long pull off his beer, the heavy muscles in his neck working so smoothly, it was more like watching a well-oiled machine than a person. He stopped himself from staring too long and took a long swallow himself. 

“Molsen Import,” Logan said, sounding pleased, before taking another drink. 

“I’ve always been partial to the Canadians”, Scott confirmed between swallows.

“Well, ya got good taste,” he complimented, and then smirked. “I’m Canadian.”

Scott choked bad enough Logan grabbed him by the arm and pounded on his back. 

“Ya all right?” he asked, concerned, but all Scott could think about was how damn hot Logan’s hand was on his arm, and how completely *solid* he felt. Well, that and getting a good, deep breath.

“Sorry,” Scott croaked, and Logan laughed. But it was a kind laugh, a genuine laugh, so he didn’t mind. In fact, he might have even smiled. After he was done sputtering, he actually relaxed. Logan released his arm then clapped him on the shoulder before he asked him if he wanted another beer. 

“Yeah,” Scott said with absolute conviction. His stomach was warm from the beer and he didn’t want to think about what else, and his face was burning too boot. 

Like a giant panther, Logan padded to the fridge and opened it before rummaging around, and Scott couldn’t keep his eyes off Logan and he was starting not to care. The guy seemed to know what was happening, and either he didn’t care, or he was good to go. The trouble was, Scott wasn’t sure if he was. It’d been the better part of a year since he’d had sex last, and hell, it’d been half his life since he’d last had sex with a man. She’d want him to, he knew. Live. Have a life. Have sex. Good sex, even. But like this? 

The gloom had grown into late evening and the light of the fridge was bright in the darkness. Logan had two more beers in one hand, and looked like he was rummaging for food. Logan was too damn sexy, and Scott smiled to himself as he studied the backlit glow of the little hairs on the big man’s shoulders. Quick like lightening, Logan turned and looked straight at him. Their eyes met, and Scott knew; there was that instantaneous ephemeral static that instantly gave him gooseflesh. The internal debate was over; they were going to have a couple beers, probably that leftover pizza from a couple days ago, and then they were going to fuck like animals until they passed out. 

Scott took another sip of beer and discovered, he was perfectly good with that.

***  
It was *way* too bright.

He tried to block it out, first with a hand, then a pillow, and then finally the covers. He thought it might be Saturday, but if not, he was fucking sleeping in anyway. He flipped over… and immediately groaned. 

He didn’t think he had a muscle that wasn’t sore. Heck, even his ass… 

Everything came rushing back. 

He lay still for a half hour, playing everything back in his head so he was sure he hadn’t imagined it. At least the sore was a good sore, maybe even the *best* sore. And why was it so damn bright? 

He finally tried to blink his way back into the world, then started laughing. Apparently, the place wasn’t so sterile anymore. 

Scott groaned as he tried for vertical, a little hung-over, but mostly just plain old sore. “Logan?” he called out, as he padded naked into the bathroom. It took a shower before he was coherent to call again. 

No one answered. 

It took him five minutes to work up the courage to go look. There were beer bottles and caps scattered everywhere, and the empty pizza box stared at him from the kitchen counter. He stepped on a well-used, thankfully knotted, condom, and made a mental note to watch his step. Pieces of clothing were lying *everywhere*; his ruined underwear was hanging from he chandelier. Hand prints in lube stained the front of the refrigerator door. 

“Logan?” he called out once more, quietly. He already knew the answer deep down, but if he stopped calling, he’d have to admit it. An odd panic settled in his chest, the sudden emptiness of the place, unnoticed for a year, came crashing back in Logan’s absence. Stubbornly, he tugged on a pair of sweats and ran outside – maybe he’d gone down to the beach. 

“Logan!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, moving around the porch. “Logan!” 

But there was no one there but echoes and the flock of puffy, grey-white clouds floating aimlessly along, mostly covering an annoyingly bright blue sky. He scanned the beach and the rocks a dozen times before; finally, he sagged down hard against the rail. Logically, Scott knew it was probably going to be a one night stand, but he’d hoped… he’d hoped for more. There had been *electricity* between them, so much like - yet unlike – that ephemeral fire that existed between him and Jean; just like with Jean, their meeting had been completely random, the connection instant. But Jean was gone, and now Logan was, too. Now, Scott just had to make himself remember that he was fine on his own, and he had been for months, so he squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could and held on to the chilly metal strut until he could breathe again.

When he turned around, he could see a Logan-sized skin print on the door glass. 

“Dammit,” he snarled, his vision flashing red as he stomped back inside. Then and there, Scott decided that he was just going to have to fucking hunt the guy down and…

Then he saw it, left where he couldn’t miss it: a bright fleck of forest green in the sea of grey, right there in the middle of the table. Scott snatched it up, a heavy vellum business card in forest green with bright gold lettering.

Wolverine Security  
James ‘Logan’ Howlett, owner  
555-239-5498

“Shit,” Scott said weakly. But now that he knew Logan hadn’t run out, a whole other set of scenarios instantly loaded themselves into his head. 

He flipped the card over, where there was a note in a bold, rough scrawl.

Job starts today; Boston - two weeks.  
Maybe after we can go for a swim?  
Call me tonight

“Jesus,” Scott breathed staring at the little card, and then the chaos of his living room, wondering just what the hell he got himself into. Then, out of the blue, he found himself laughing to beat the band. 

He was still clutching the tiny business card in one hand as his feet found their way back outside to the rail, to the view of the white-capped sea. He read it again, then again, as the wind cooled him down and scattered beams of sunlight danced across the waves. “Go for a swim,” he repeated aloud, then stared out at the dark water at the edge of the rocks. Dark and ugly things stirred in his chest, but he turned his face into breeze as gentle as her satisfied sigh and let it drain all of that away. She’d like Logan, he thought. 

With the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips, Scott suddenly hoped that swimming was like riding a bike. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he hoped a lot of things were like riding a bike.

Scott absently reached for the phone; he’d have to have his assistant send out his Road King. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first new piece completed in forever, so a little bit of feedback would do wondrous things.


End file.
